Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure

by Diane Kelly

  “Why not?” He took a seat next to me.

  Eddie guessed various letters, but only got two s’s and an e before he was hung.

  “The word was ‘shyster.’” I glanced over at Gryder.

  Eddie went next. I quickly guessed the words he’d chosen. “Tax evasion.”

  When we grew bored of hangman, we played games on our cell phones. I placed a call to my insider at Neiman’s, a sharp salesgirl whose clever shopping strategies helped me achieve four seasons of high fashion on a limited budget. “Hi, it’s Tara. Any chance that blue Donna Karan suit’s been marked down?”

  “Not yet, sorry. But there’s an adorable cranberry-colored sweater in your size on the clearance rack for eighty percent off. A new associate spilled her chai tea on the matching pants. Ruined ’em. Want me to hold the top for you?”

  “Definitely.”

  A loud knock sounded on the door behind us. Gryder opened the door for his attorney, a wide, square-jawed older man with close-cropped white hair and an expensive, custom-tailored gray suit.

  On the doorstep behind Gryder’s lawyer stood Ross, also dressed in a gray suit though his was clearly off the rack. “Let’s get this party started.”

  Gryder led our entourage upstairs, past a half-open bedroom door through which we heard snoring and saw Chelsea lying facedown and topless on the plush bed, her blond hair tangled and tousled, black satin sheets bunched around her waist. Gryder opened the door to an adjacent room and walked in ahead of us. “All of the records are in here. Keep them in order.”

  Eddie and I exchanged knowing glances. The more guilty people were, the more they pretended we were simply a pesky nuisance rather than a real threat.

  The only furniture in the room was a large computer desk with an open laptop resting on it. In the corner sat the three boxes Gryder had lugged into the hotel the night before, still strapped to the luggage cart. A half-dozen larger boxes were stacked between the two uncovered plate-glass windows overlooking the back of the property and the lake.

  Ross slid out of his suit jacket and draped it across his arm as he stepped up to one of the tall windows. He gazed out at the lake. “What a spectacular view.”

  Gryder’s attorney retrieved three metal folding chairs from the table in the kitchen and Gryder and the attorneys sat near the windows. The attorneys focused on me and Eddie, while Gryder stared out through the glass, watching the landscaping crew, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his robe riding up to reveal blindingly white legs. Guess he didn’t spend much time in shorts while he was in Costa Rica.

  “I’ll start with the boxes,” Eddie told me, gesturing toward the desk. “You try the computer.”

  I settled into the chair at the desk while Eddie knelt on the floor and began sorting through the first of the larger boxes. I pushed the button to boot up Gryder’s computer. The machine beeped and a few seconds later a log-in screen popped up, requesting a password. I turned to Gryder. “What’s your password?”

  Gryder’s attorney bent over, whispered in his client’s ear, then looked up at me. “Mr. Gryder won’t be answering that question.”

  Ross turned to the other attorney. “On what grounds?”

  “Fifth amendment.”

  Eddie and I exchanged glances again. Gryder was refusing to answer on the grounds of self-incrimination. Typical. Refusing to give us the password wouldn’t stop us. It would only serve to delay our investigation a few hours.

  I turned the computer off and closed it. “We’ll have to take the laptop back to the office with us then.” With his hacking skills, Josh could have the password for us in less time than it took Gryder to apply his hair gel.

  Gryder leaped from his chair, his robe momentarily flapping open to reveal black bikini briefs. “You can’t take my computer. It has personal information on it.”

  Before I could respond, Gryder’s attorney put a hand on his client’s arm. “They can and they will, Michael. We can challenge the search in court later.”

  Gryder turned purple, exhaled sharply, then muttered something under his breath.

  Neener-neener. I stifled a snicker. I unplugged the computer and slid the laptop into a case I found in the desk drawer before joining Eddie on the floor in the corner.

  Eddie had finished searching through the first box, which contained only blank account application forms and stacks of the same brochure Gryder had given to Christina at the seminar the night before. He started on the second box, which contained a stack of labeled file folders. He pulled out each file, looked the contents over briefly, then handed them to me for a second look.

  The first folder was marked “El Paso,” followed by a date two months prior. The file contained copies of checks the duped investors had made out, as well as a list identifying the names and addresses of those who had attended the seminar. Underneath were similar files which took us on a western trail from Las Cruces, New Mexico, to San Diego, California, and led us back in time from January of this year to the previous July. Gryder might be a cheat and a fraud, but he was a meticulous bookkeeper.

  From the bottom of the box, Eddie pulled out a legal-sized document a hundred pages thick, held together with a binder clip. He laid it on top of the box in front of him and flipped through the pages. “Whoa. I found the smoking gun.”

  I scooted closer to him and looked over his shoulder. The document was a spreadsheet detailing the names and addresses of XChange Investments’ investors with the amount invested and the so-called returns paid to them. The summary showed payments made to the first investors, enough to string them along and encourage them to tell their friends what a great investment they’d found and recruit the friends before the house of cards fell. The spreadsheet tracked the funds coming in and the funds going out. But nowhere on the page were any actual foreign currency exchanges accounted for. Clearly, the investors’ funds hadn’t been used to purchase foreign money. The funds were simply being shuffled around in Gryder’s financial shell game.

  According to the addresses on the spreadsheet, Gryder’d also recruited investors in Florida, Arizona, and Nevada, all states with warm climates and popular with retirees, before moving on to Texas. How could Gryder live with himself, preying on the elderly, those least able to protect themselves or recover from a financial loss?

  Per the records, Gryder had brought in over twenty-three million dollars over the last few years, a large portion of it during the final quarter of the previous year. Yet that income had not been reported on any tax return. No doubt about it, the guy had balls. It would be a pleasure yanking them off.

  I handed the spreadsheet to Ross. “Here’s Treasury exhibit number one.” Okay, so that comment was admittedly a bit snarky. It was Ross, not me, who would determine how to present the case in court, if it got that far. But I couldn’t help myself.

  While Gryder and his attorney watched, Ross set the paper on his lap and looked the spreadsheet over, running a finger down the columns and across the rows. Still looking down, he shot me a discreet look from under his brows, one that said, “Slam dunk.” Gryder’s fastidious record-keeping would make our case easier to prove.

  We had more than enough evidence to justify his arrest now. I looked over at Gryder. He stared out the window, his eyes squinting against the early afternoon sun. I followed his gaze to the landscaping crew, wrangling a large oak tree into one of several deep holes dug in the backyard. We’d been trained not to unnecessarily antagonize a suspect, but I couldn’t help myself. “That’s what honest work looks like.”

  Gryder didn’t turn around but his jaw flexed.

  Eddie put the paperwork back in the boxes and stood. “Let’s take these boxes out to my van.”

  Sounded good to me. My legs had grown stiff from kneeling on the floor. Eddie stuck the laptop in one of the boxes and he and Ross grabbed the others to carry them out to the car.

  Since I was the primary agent assigned to the case, it was understood that I’d have the honor of reading Gryder his rig
hts. I picked up my purse and pulled out my Miranda cheat sheet. I had the litany of rights memorized by now, but best not to take any chances. The last thing I wanted was for Gryder’s case to be dismissed on a legal technicality and all of our hard work to go to waste.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” I began.

  Gryder’s eyes narrowed and turned dark, but below them a smirk quirked his lips. He’d been through this routine before, several times, and come out virtually unscathed. If he thought he’d skate through another investigation, he was dead wrong. I vowed the XChange Investments scam would be his last. With his accumulation of transgressions and the public’s increasing awareness of financial fraud, no jury would let him slide again. Barring any unexpected events, Gryder would serve time.

  When I finished reading Gryder his rights, I slid the cheat sheet back into my purse. “I’ll take a quick look around,” I told Eddie and Ross, “to make sure we haven’t missed anything.” I turned to Gryder’s attorney then. “I’m assuming your client would prefer to change clothes before we take him in?” Gryder wouldn’t last a second in jail in his paisley robe and black bikini briefs.

  Gryder’s attorney nodded. “He’ll change after you finish your search.”

  “Okeydokey.”

  Gryder and his attorney followed me as I quickly went through the remainder of the upstairs. Since we’d already hit the mother lode, my search was cursory. The upstairs rooms were empty, other than the guest room being used by Michael and Chelsea. I peeked under the bed and in the drawers in the guest room as Chelsea snored. The only thing I noted was that the bottle of Viagra held fewer pills than before. I didn’t want to risk waking Chelsea and have to deal with that twit again, so I didn’t bother checking under the mattress.

  It seemed like a small oversight at the time.

  But now, in retrospect, it was the biggest mistake of my career.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Dirty Business

  As I grasped the railing at the top of the stairs to head down to the first floor, Gryder excused himself to change. Frankly, I was glad to be rid of him, even if for just a few moments. The guy reminded me of the Joker from Batman. He gave me the willies with his slick hair and fake grin.

  Gryder’s attorney followed me down to the first floor where I went from one end to the other, checking closets, cabinets, and the kitchen pantry. Other than the folding table in the breakfast nook, several takeout boxes in the fridge, and a few pots and pans in the cabinets, the downstairs was empty.

  After I closed the last cabinet, movement outside the kitchen window caught my eye. Brett stood on the patio with his back to me, pulling pieces from a stack of white plastic lawn sprinkler pipe. He turned and our eyes met through the glass.

  His face registered surprise and his mouth formed the word “Tara?” just before a bullet whizzed by me, passing so close to my head it took a few strands of my hair with it. The glass separating Brett and me burst into shards raining down on the patio.

  Behind me, Gryder’s attorney shrieked, hurling his black leather briefcase at his client in an instinctual act of self-preservation. Gryder stood in the doorway to the kitchen, pistol poised for another shot. The briefcase hit Gryder broadside in the face, knocking him aside, buying his attorney enough time to sprint for the front door and me enough time to scramble onto the countertop and dive out the window.

  As I fell to the ground, I instinctively put out my right hand to break my fall. Another mistake. My wrist snapped as it absorbed the weight of my body full force, the bones crunching, crushed by the pressure. I cried out in agony, rolling onto my back and holding my right hand in my left, writhing in pain among the pieces of broken glass.

  Brett stood on the patio, looking down at me, his mouth gaping. His years of friendly competition on the golf course hadn’t prepared him for this type of violent, life-or-death confrontation. If he’d been involved in Gryder’s scheme, he clearly hadn’t expected things to end like this.

  I needed to get up, get the hell out of there before Gryder could shoot again. I rolled onto my knees, but with only one functioning hand, I had a hard time getting to my feet on the slipping, sliding shards of glass.

  Brett grabbed me by the arm and yanked me first to my feet, then off the porch, out of the line of fire. “What’s going on?”

  “We came for Gryder!” I cried, unable to breathe and gulping for air, my right arm hanging limp and useless at my side. “To arrest him!”

  Brett’s face registered surprise, then comprehension.

  The landscape workers nearby had heard the gunshot, abandoned their equipment and scattered, some running along the lakeshore, others rocketing around the side of the house to the street. Only the guy operating the Bobcat down the hill continued to work, the noise of the machine having drowned out the sound of the gun’s blast. One of the other men ran toward him, frantically waving his arms.

  Brett and I took off running along the back of the house. We were a dozen feet from the corner when Eddie came around it.

  “Go back! Gryder’s got a gun!” I motioned with my left arm. The gesture threw me off balance. Whump. In my hurry to get the hell out of Dodge, I’d fallen into a four-foot-deep hole, one the crew had dug for the oak trees, and knocked the wind out of me. Brett pulled on my good arm, trying to help me out of the hole, but my feet kept slipping in the loose dirt. I couldn’t get enough traction to climb out. Bullets hit the dirt around us, kicking up small poofs of dust. It was only a matter of time before one of those bullets would find its mark.

  I yanked my arm out of Brett’s grip and rolled onto my back inside the hole, fumbling with my left hand to free my Glock from my hip holster. Shrieking against the pain in my right wrist, I gripped the gun with both hands and fired back at Gryder. My shots went wild, none coming remotely close to the French doors from which he was firing. Gryder ducked back inside, probably to reload.

  “Shit!”

  Brett tried again to pull me out of the hole. If I had ever doubted his loyalties or his character, I sure as hell had no doubts now. He was risking his life.

  For me.

  Gryder’s face reappeared at the glass doors. He took aim at us again.

  “Brett, go! I’ll be okay!” At least I had the hole to hide in. Brett was a sitting duck.

  “I can’t just leave you here!”

  A bullet hit the ground just inches from us as Brett continued to try to wrestle me out of the hole. Brett would be killed trying to save me. And I would be killed because I couldn’t get myself out of this hole with my broken wrist.

  Another bullet hit the loose soil in front of us. I pointed my gun up at Brett’s face. “Go or I’ll shoot you myself!”

  Brett’s eyes met mine over the barrel of my gun. He glanced back at Gryder and finally seemed to realize the hopelessness of our situation. “I’ll get help!” He turned and ran, a bullet lodging in the dirt where he’d just stood.

  I ducked down into the hole and made myself as small as possible as the bullets flew over me. I could have used some of Alice in Wonderland’s shrinking potion about then. I heard cars start up and roar off, tires screeching, as the landscape workers fled.

  Gryder squeezed off another shot, this one hitting the top edge of the hole, sending a cascade of dirt into my eyes. I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision. When Gryder paused to reload again, I peeked out from the hole and squeezed off another round, taking out a chunk of wood trim two feet to the left of the back door. Dammit! With my shattered wrist, I couldn’t aim for shit.

  Where the hell was Eddie? Why hadn’t he taken Gryder out yet? He wouldn’t have run away and left his partner in danger. He was probably crouched nearby, gun drawn, waiting for a clean shot and thinking what a great character-building experience I was having down in this hole with bullets raining down on me.

  “I have all the character I need!” I screamed to the cloudless blue sky, all I could see above me.

  I hoped someone had called for backup. My ce
ll phone was in my purse back on the kitchen floor where I’d dropped it.

  “Nowhere to run to,” Gryder’s voice was coming closer. “Nowhere to hide.” Another bullet lodged in the dirt just above my head, showering more loose earth down on me.

  I stuck my hand up over the edge of the hole and fired off a few rounds toward the voice. I squeezed again but nothing happened.

  My clip was empty.

  And I didn’t have another.

  A panicked cry tore from my throat. Ross or Gryder’s attorney would surely have called the local cops by now, but out here in this secluded location it would take precious minutes for help to arrive. For a few seconds, everything was quiet. Had I hit him? Was Gryder dead? My breath came in loud gulps and white sparks twirled around my vision.

  A dark shadow fell over the hole. I looked up to see Gryder smiling his shit-eating grin down at me. His belt had come undone and the paisley robe hung loose, revealing the too-tight bikini briefs that barely contained his guy parts. I would’ve been disgusted if I hadn’t been so terrified.

  The shit-eating grin turned even shittier as Gryder pointed his gun at my face. “They say there are only two sure things in life. Death and taxes. I say there’s only one sure thing.” The smile morphed into a nasty leer. “Death.”

  I was going to die. No doubt about it. At least by dying I’d avoid all the paperwork this shootout would generate. With that realization, something in me snapped. Funny how staring death in the face can make a person bold. Really, what have you got to lose at that point?

  I eased myself onto my elbows and glared up at Gryder. “You’re a scumbag. My partner will have to fill out a bunch of forms after you kill me. He hates filling out forms as much as I do. Your wife’s a skank and you’ve got the second-worst hair I’ve ever seen.” Hey, I only said facing death made me bold, I never said it made me eloquent.

  Gryder sniggered down at me. “Forms? Bad hair? You really want those to be your last words?”

  “No. She doesn’t.” Brett stepped into my field of vision. In his left hand he held a Glock. In his right he held an eighteen-inch section of PVC pipe. He swung the pipe and smacked Gryder upside the head with it. Whack!